By the Will
by LittleMender
Summary: Tag to 4x11 Always Bet on Red. She hadn't lied or exaggerated for dramatic effect when she'd told him she had known from the first that she would lose her job because of him one day. But she hadn't comprehended just how undone everything could come.


**This latest episode . . . I wouldn't go straight to "**_**enjoy"**_**, but I did like it. It was dark and uncertain and showed a growing depth of honesty (The argument in the attic was great.) if nothing else in Jane and Lisbon's relationship in a difficult context as well as the pangs that would come with that. Still, parts of it were painful to watch, and I'm afraid this tag, written entirely from Lisbon's point of view, continues in that vein. Be of good cheer—I did manage to end on an up note.**

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"_By the will art thou lost, by the will art thou found, by the will art thou free, captive, and bound." - Angelus Silesius_

BY THE WILL

She could feel it unraveling. If she closed her eyes and thought about it, she could feel the frayed ends of the rope, thin, coarse and fleeting in her hands.

She hadn't lied, hadn't exaggerated for dramatic effect when she'd told him she had known from the first that she would lose her job because of him one day. But she hadn't really comprehended just how undone everything could come until he'd told her that Red John was still alive, still out there, that it wasn't over. She had refused to believe him even though she had known she eventually must. Had looked into every possible way to convince him even though her own desperate convictions—for once—had been the lie. She had almost convinced herself that it couldn't get any worse. And then Panzer and the television interview and another gruesome smiley . . . And then she had tried to convince herself again. As always when it came to Jane, she really should have known better.

F.B.I. Special Agent Susan Darcy had sat in her office in the awkward little office chair, her long, full, elegant body cramped, shifting her weight from one side to the other in an attempt to ward off just enough discomfort to not be distracted while she conversed with Jane, seeking information and interrogating, evaluating him, equal parts wanting to learn from him and suspicious of him. Her own eyes, too, had been on Jane. She had not watched in fascination—she was past that now. Still, he had put on quite the show, as much for her as for Darcy. Careful to avoid the charming smile, the beguiling crinkle at the corner of the eye, all of the things that usually seduced _anyone_ into seeing only what he wanted them to see, he had let himself look worn down, questioning, interested, his eyes direct and unblinking with sincerity and the desire to offer aid that he didn't have to give. She had known what he was doing, from that look to the strategic use of that turquoise teacup. He had been keeping Susan Darcy's very astute attention on him so that it wouldn't stray to _her_. For several minutes his eyes had not traveled to her, which was strange, she realized, as his eyes had come to seek her out more and more these days for confirmation, permission, assurance, alliance. She had even begun to wonder if her face was some kind of memory device for him, something he used to keep things straight in his mind. But looking at her would have taken Darcy's gaze in the same direction. And _without_ looking at her, he had known that Lisbon's expression would have somehow given them away. While the agent's eyes had skittered between the two of them more than once or twice, Jane had been quick to do something, say something, make some movement or gesture that had kept the focus on him, not allowing anything to be diverted to or rest on her. She was getting a handle on herself, nicely and quickly she thought, until she had felt Jane was being pushed and opened her big mouth to make Darcy get to the point. Then Darcy had asked if Jane was certain the man he had killed was Red John.

Jane had affirmed it, lied unequivocally, and she had taken a drink of her tea hoping the movement would still the sudden tremble that ran over her. Even Jane had broken form at that point, both of them raising their drinks to sip at the same time, Jane seeking a moment to think before darting his eyes to hers as he spoke, implying his certainty of her agreement with his words but more likely trying to tell her not to talk anymore and to stop trying to hide behind her mug. She had finally abandoned the security of the ceramic and lowered it to rest in her palm, wishing for the world she had been able to crawl into it and hide. Instinctively, she knew he wanted her to keep her eyes on him so that if Darcy's attention did drift, the only thing to see would be her hanging on her consultant's every word and theory. Jane had distracted Agent Darcy until she had been able to get a handle on her apprehension—desperation if she was honest—school her features and not do anything that would _give them away_.

The ease with which he lied, the flawlessness and grace of it did, after all of these years, still astound her. Knowing that was not the expression Agent Darcy should see, she had finally zeroed in on that teacup, following the up and down, the careful hovering, the pause and sip. Her own attention was momentarily diverted with wondering if he had long ago chosen that close-to-robin's-egg color and almost-femininely-rounded shape because it was so out of place, so disjointed with anything else in these surroundings so that he could use it in just this way. She put aside her instinctive urge to try and remember if she herself had ever been mesmerized by that cup, took a silent deeper breath through her nose and let it wisp out through her barely parted lips, willing herself to sit tight until the ride was over.

She didn't know if she should have been horrified that telling the truth hadn't even crossed her mind until the conversation was over.

Then later, after Red John had sent that video and Jane had tried to convince Darcy to drop the case, she had gone up to find him in the attic—and that was another thing. He was going up there more and more, back to the way he was before, back to withdrawing and separating himself. Only that wasn't what it was about because now he had told her the truth. Or at least the facts. And she had said awful things to him, that he was trying to keep Red John to himself at the expense of someone else's life, that somehow this was all about his manipulating things to his own purposes as he had done with Panzer. And it was even more awful because she really was afraid those things _were_ the truth. And if Red John really wanted to destroy Jane or at least keep making him pay, what better way than to suck him into a "closer relationship"? She had no doubt Jane would play along hoping to catch and kill, but once the serial murderer realized his true intentions she was sure he would not merely declare no harm-no foul and walk away. Jane—or someone else—would pay. Part of her wondered if he would even care anymore. Sure, there was a kind of twisted nobility in his aiming Red John at Panzer, that it had been the only way he could stop the man he was convinced was the San Joaquin killer. But she couldn't forget his main reasoning for not telling the truth about Red John still being alive had boiled down to _"Where does that leave me?"_

She had dreaded telling him about Tom Maier's suicide, knowing he had felt a deep empathy with the man in a kindred sorrow. And it may have been ghoulish of her, but she had been glad to see him so affected by the news, that it was evidence of the humanity she believed still existed in him. But the effect had fallen away—melted or crackled or something—before her eyes, and she didn't comprehend until later as the meticulously planted "evidence" was discovered that Jane had realized and measured the benefit to be reaped from another family's tragedy.

Over the next hours, when he was coming and going, refusing to tell her what he was doing even when she facilitated his mysterious activity, "deniability" was all he repeatedly offered, like some elusive parrot, and she had let it go, picking up the mocking refrain herself. Usually she would have pushed him for answers, following him, even chasing him down demanding disclosure, but the truth—_her_ truth was, she hadn't wanted to know. And she knew he knew that. It's why he hadn't paused or asked her what was wrong. He had dug himself into this and she had willingly jumped in after. Now he was weaving a covering for the hole so that no one would find them out. All she could do was let him have his head and hope the warp and woof were strong enough to hide them both and keep anyone else from falling into the snare.

All of this had run through her head at Tom Maier's graveside while the minister intoned a eulogy, and she had shaken herself from the reverie when his widow had stepped forward to speak, struck by the ridiculous thought that it was inappropriate to be thinking about such things at a man's funeral. And then Teri Maier had read that note and all of the pieces had come together with a violent snap like a guillotine finding its mark.

The exchange with Agent Darcy following after, Jane so earnestly questioning and convincingly shocked by this tragic turn of events had nearly sickened her—but not so much that she couldn't play her part and offer a platitude to close out the sham and get him away, rescuing him from scrutiny yet again. But Darcy had had one final question, a private curiosity about the effect hunting a monster had had on Jane's own psyche. At least he had told the truth there, and she had reaffirmed it: he had changed. What she didn't say was that she knew it had changed her too.

But he didn't care, accepted her charge in seeming good humor, excusing and satisfied with himself for being able to say Darcy was safe. She resented the possibility that Darcy might be the only one. Partly because she could think of nothing more to say to him and partly because she couldn't look at him anymore, she had simply gotten into the vehicle and driven them both away.

And now she had this horrible feeling that things were coming apart and wondered if Jane could feel the fraying on his end or if he would tell her if he did. She couldn't help but remember another time, another mortal crime, another lie, another cover, another friend who had done something irretrievable and how she had never spoken up, mostly to protect all of the people who would be hurt if she did, revisiting it only for the sake of the man, yet another Judas, who now sat beside her. And she realized she hadn't really changed. And neither had he. All of this . . . this _mess_ hadn't altered their characters. It had only exposed them. She wanted to cry, but she knew there would be no tears.

Suddenly, she was acutely aware of his eyes on her. His hands rested in his lap, fingers laced, thumb tips touching. His breath was light and even, face blank, shoulders relaxed. She doubted anyone else would have noticed the whiteness of his nails, the only indication of how tightly his entire being was caught in a clasp. Jane was worried, but for her or about what she might do she couldn't tell.

That's when she felt something constrict in her so hard that it was almost a physical feeling and she realized it didn't matter if the rope slipped from her grasp. It was wound around her, holding her captive, and it wasn't just rope. There was the barbed wire of Jane's hatred and bloodlust paining but not piercing her, the steel bands of his trusting her alone with the knowledge of Red John's continued existence, and that plain but thick rope of his certainty of her loyalty. Jane may have forged her bonds, but he had only cast them at her. She was the one who had willingly caught at the other end then slowly spun toward him, winding and binding herself to him until his fingertips brushed against hers, his own self caught as well.

And now she was trapped. Out of options. His actions had even stolen away the possibility that she could arrest Red John. To do so would expose his lies and crimes, and she wondered if in all of his plotting he had foreseen that and so ordained making her an accessory after the fact.

The damp blurring of her vision caught her unawares, surpising her that she could still have such vulnerability, that she wasn't so hardened, so jaded and so beyond it. A warm hand curved over her shoulder, and she was reminded of another time, leaving another graveside. Jane had caught the budding serial killers—husband and wife—in an ill-conceived trap, and she had burst through the door just in time to kill them both before they turned on him, ending their spree at a count of one dead red-haired girl. The SCU team had stood across the cemetery from where the grieving family huddled in their last communion with their beloved daughter, and though she had accepted the mother's nod of approval and gratitude at the justice she had meted out, she had turned and walked away bearing the weight of their grief and the blood on her hands, righteous though the shooting had been. Jane, in a most uncharacteristic gesture of sympathy at the time, had laid his hand on her shoulder in just this same way. Now she wanted to shake him off, angry that he would bastardize that token of comfort, turning it into a reminder of their shared purgatory.

She leaned away from him, pulling her shoulder in, trying to withdraw from his hold on her, but his fingers tightened and he uttered her name, his voice hoarse with desperation so pure and quiet even he couldn't fake it. Pulling the car to the curb, she pushed the gear into park, gathered her composure and turned to look at him.

And he was looking at her. In that way he had been looking at her so much in the last few months before F.B.I. Special Agent Susan Darcy had walked into her office only a few days earlier. It shocked her to the core that the cast of his eyes she had interpreted only partially correctly as recognition and reminder of their complicity also said other things.

Understand. _Unintended_. See. _Remorse_. Forgive. _Please_.

The constriction eased, and in its place she felt a tug. Under the barbed wire, the steel bands, the coarse rope, was something else. Something neither of them had counted on but both had had a hand in making. A silken cord. Friendship, endurance, trust and faithfulness. Tears sprang anew as she remembered what, in her spiraling uncertainty, she had forgotten: The things he had done for her, the unabashed generosities and the unexpected sacrifices, the varied experiences and assorted kindnesses, none of which—he would have known—would have been necessary to procure her aid or constancy. And the fact that while he had angered her and used her and challenged her and frightened her and embarrassed her and even hurt and endangered her, he had never once ever let her down. Even if one day they managed to free themselves of the other ligatures, that cord would remain, as surely as if it had been sutured into their beings.

His fingers were massaging through her jacket and into her flesh now, his thumb circling on the round of her shoulder. Her eyes drifted from his in the direction of his ministrations then back, her left eyebrow arching and the right corner of her mouth quirking into the perpetual dimple there. His brow furrowed in confusion at the sudden change in her demeanor before quickness of mind returned abruptly and, realizing what he was doing and how he was touching her, his hand slid sideways and to her back, landing three awkward pats before curling into a fist and jamming into his suit pocket, the other hand doing the same. She sat there, smirking at him, waiting for a reaction, some smooth segue or smartass comment, and felt immense satisfaction when he only pushed his lips into a tight upside-down arc, raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the windshield to tell her to get moving.

She had chosen this. Chosen to stick with him. She was no chicken and she didn't go back on her word, even if it was unspoken. She had given him reason to believe in her, to trust her with his secrets and his fears, and she had not held any of that cheaply. In return, he had done what he could to shield her from his recklessness and she knew that if he went down he would use every weapon in his arsenal, defensive and offensive, to keep her from falling with him.

_Tug._

He rolled his eyes at her and jerked his head more forcefully toward the road ahead. Her heart lightened and her footing once again found, she signaled, checked her mirrors, shifted into drive and followed his direction.

**END**

**Although that ended on a positive note, I think we all might need a pick-me-up. Somebody, please . . . write a Chummer tag. They were just too good. And if you could mention her inquiring after his back . . .?**


End file.
